Primarily Platonic in Nature
by DraconisHyperion
Summary: What if Sherlock, self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath', was actually a tactile and affectionate man by nature? And what if John understood? Sure, people will talk, but when don't they when it comes to a genius detective and his army doctor blogger? / AU. Johnlock. Platonic romance.


Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock actually didn't mind touching people or people touching him. Truthfully, he craved physicality with others. When he began high school, however, it became an issue in that he constantly seemed to cross the line between "Friendly" and "Intimate", according to those around him. Never mind that the physical affection he doled was purely platonic in its intent. Other teens always took his actions the wrong way and either ended up uncomfortable or stepped over the line into attempts at sexual activity.

So, he learned to distance himself from everyone; in the physical sense, at least. No need to make effort with emotional distance; no, Mycroft made sure he had that down before he even left primary school.

Though perhaps he learned a little too well, because by the time he finished secondary school, Sherlock had deleted his classifications between friendly, casual touches, and affection that could, or would, be taken the wrong way. And maybe that's why it had been so easy for..._him_...to string Sherlock along. To introduce the younger Holmes to an alternative to all of his self-imposed rules and a brain that couldn't - _wouldn't_ \- slow down for anything. Drugs.

But that was in the past now, Sherlock thought briefly as he pulled his coat on before heading out to St. Bart's. He was long since clean, and had picked up other bad habits. Like his experiments, as Sherlock's former roommate had shouted at him while moving out this morning.

No matter. Mike Stamford had proven he was decent at acquiring roommates for him, and it wouldn't be hard to catch the man this morning and mention it to him. No doubt Sherlock would have yet another new flatmate in the next two or three days.

Problem solved, and no need for Mycroft to come anywhere near him or his flat.

_**p.p.i.n.**_

John's jaw tightened slightly as he cut through a park, on his way back to his flat after his appointment. Damn his therapy, and his therapist. All he ever felt after those sessions was irritated. The only thing his therapist ever talked about was "reintegrating into civilian life". What would she know, anyway? All she really cared about was spouting bullshit and taking his money. It's not like she had ever been in a war. She had never been a soldier, like him.

Though John had been back for only a few short weeks, he had very quickly realized, after being in war, he was not cut out for civilian life anymore. Maybe he never really had been, even before. So what was the point in trying so hard? Or even trying at all?

"John? John Watson!?" a voice called out, pulling him from his rapidly darkening thoughts. John turned around, his eyebrows furrowed slightly at the man who had addressed him.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford," the short, somewhat chubby stranger introduced himself before conrunning on. "We were at Bart's together-"

"Yes. I rem-Yes," John said with a sharp nod, just a bare hint of recognition in his eyes, and reached out to shake the other's hand. "Mike. Hello."

"Yeah, I know. I got fat," Mike said with a huffy, almost-laugh as he reached out as well.

John shook his head slightly, looking away briefly in embarrassment. "No…"

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked, causing John to grimace and look down again.

Exhaling roughly, he slapped a small grin on his face and shrugged lightly. "I got shot."

Mike's face fell, and the two of them stood there for a moment, neither sure of what to say. Well, it was really Mike who didn't know what to say next, John was just wondering if it would be acceptable for him to just walk away. Unfortunately, politeness won out, and before John knew it, he and Mike were getting coffees and sitting back at the park bench to catch up.

…

"You still at Bart's, then?" John asked after a long sip, half turning to look at Stamford.

"Teaching, now," Mike said with a nod, a half grin creeping up on his face. "Bright young things, like we used to be…God, I hate them."

John let out a chuckle at that, more courtesy than anything as Mike chuckled as well.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension," John replied with a huff.

"And you couldn't bare to be anywhere else," Mike teased a little. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson you knew," John said somewhat sharply, his voice low. He glanced down at his hand, curling it into a fist to stop the trembling of his fingers.

A quiet moment passes between them, before Mike tries again. "Eh, couldn't Harry help?"

"Like that's gonna happen," John scoffs, rolling his eyes. And even if it did, as if he would accept any help from her. Well, any _more_ help. No, the phone was more than enough, thanks.

"Oh, I dunno. You could get a flatshare or something?" Mike threw out, shrugging.

"C'mon," John began skeptically, raising an eyebrow at the other man. "Who'd want _me_ as a flatmate?"

Mike actually shook his head and laughed at that, much to John's confusion. "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," he explained, and John's eyebrows drew together.

"Who was the first?" he asked, and Mike's smile only grew.

"C'mon, I'll take you to him. He's more than likely experimenting in a lab right now."

Unable to let go of curiosity, John followed; the walk taking almost too long, in his opinion, because of his need for a cane. Damn his leg.


End file.
